


To Serve

by EveryoneHasAmnesia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: BDSM themes, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, I refuse to use olive oil as lube, M/M, Paddling, Porn Without Plot, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Rimming, Roughness, Spanking, Top Will Graham, fucking in the kitchen, light biting, no actual penetration, this is exactly what it says on the tin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28815342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveryoneHasAmnesia/pseuds/EveryoneHasAmnesia
Summary: Hannibal loves the new cutting board. Just not for food preparation.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 78
Collections: Hannibal Flash Fic #002





	To Serve

Hannibal looked up from the unwrapped gifts he’d been presented over breakfast. It wasn’t his birthday, wasn’t Christmas, wasn’t the day they tumbled to their near deaths and mutual rebirth. He hadn’t done anything for Will lately. There was no occasion at all, and the giftwrapped rectangle had been a delightful surprise that dissolved into… 

“You brought me… serving platters.” It was not a question, and Will bristled at the implication in Hannibal’s voice. 

“Cutting boards. Actually.” 

“They’re decorative.”

“They’re not. They’re decorated, but you can cut on them. The resin is food safe.” 

“But the wood is soft. These are for serving in a deconstructed manner. Or perhaps for a charcuterie board.” Hannibal turned one of the boards over in his hands. He pressed a fingernail into the wood near the handle and showed Will the resulting mark. 

Will, who had picked these boards purely because the gey and blue resin handles, lined with white like foam, reminded him of the crashing waves of their rebirth, frowned deeply. They were not identical boards, which would have required machine make, but of a set style. They had the same colors and the same composition, the only differences between them the natural variations in the grain of the wood and the application of the resin into wave-like patterns and bubbles of faux froth.

“I thought,” he said, with exaggerated care, “we ate the rude. It’s a gift. If you don’t like it, suffer silently.” 

“I’m sure I will suffer,” Hannibal said. “But I do not intend to be silent.” Hannibal continued to turn the board over, holding it up to the light. The warm, bright light of Buenos Aires was too strong to be let into their apartment except during the morning hours. He wasn’t going to deal with faded furniture and paint, as he’d told Will frequently. Then he picked up the other board and weighed them, one in each hand. 

Will watched him silently, stirring his coffee. He couldn’t tell what mathematics was going on behind Hannibal’s eyes. Eventually, the doctor put one of the boards back on the counter. After a moment, he snapped the board he’d chosen through the air like a tennis player testing the balance of a racket. 

Will pushed his half-eaten breakfast aside. “I don’t know what you think is going to happen, but I’m not inclined to reward you.” 

“It’s not a reward.”

“Of course it is.”

“Then why are you clearing your place?” Hannibal gestured to the pile of dishes that Will was carrying to the sink. “If you’re not going to accompany me upstairs?” 

“I’m just making room for the second course.” Will grabbed a cloth and wiped a few crumbs from the bare table. Hannibal stood in the doorway out of the kitchen, a flicker of surprise and hesitation in his eyes. 

“The bedroom is more comfortable,” he said. 

“The kitchen is where I prepare food.” Will crossed the space between them in three easy steps, standing well within Hannibal’s personal space as he lifted the cutting board turned serving platter turned paddle from Hannibal’s unresisting fingers. “And I’m already doing you a favor: you know I prefer to use my hands. Do you still want to go upstairs?” 

Hannibal’s pupils are wide and his breath catches. “No.” 

Will leans forward and kisses Hannibal full on the lips. It’s heated but lazy, long familiar. His hands find Hannibal’s hips and draw him close, the cutting board caught between their bodies. “Just say the word,” he murmured, and Hannibal nodded. Not that they ever really did, but Will appreciated the check in far more than Hannibal ever seemed to. The balance of destruction and reassurance--or perhaps merely a facade, the practical and appropriate cover Will needs to cut loose. Justice killing and BDSM. 

Then the moment was over. Hannibal turned away and strode to the table. After a moment he bent slightly forward, ass rounding out the back of his silk pajamas. He waited, head bowed. 

Will waited too. He turned the board over and over in his hands. It had a good weight to it. As much as he preferred to work skin to skin, this cutting board felt good in his hands, the resin cool and firm. It wasn’t balanced well as a weapon. The handle was too short, there was too much strain on the wrist when he waved it in the air. But it would do. Will practiced his grip as he stood, as quietly as he could, waiting for the anticipation to build. He could see the tension flowing into Hannibal’s shoulders. He saw him start to turn and barked out, “Eyes front.” 

It only took a few minutes, but it felt like forever before Will stepped up, soft in his bare feet, and swung the cutting board like a tennis racket into Hannibal’s ass. There was a very satisfying smack and Hannibal rocked forward onto the balls of his feet. 

“Is still a stupid gift?” Will asked. 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“You thought it.” Will wound up again. 

“Are you a mind reader, Will--Ah!” It was a breathy exclamation, a surprised sound--and it clicked something over in Will’s brain. 

He spanked Hannibal again. Again. Again. He could feel the shock running up his arm with the force of the blows, and the pleasant burn in his arms and shoulders after a few minutes. He varied the strokes, changing his angle, his force. Hannibal was going to feel this for a long time, but though the man began to unravel--soft, breathy sounds turning deeper, into groans that put hooks in the base of Will’s stomach and pulled, exclamations that made Will’s cock tent the front of his trousers--Will didn’t slow. 

Hannibal’s sounds were joined by Will’s. Grunts of exertion, of pain as the weapon’s rebound stressed his wrist and shoulders. Of pleasure when there was a good sound, a good, meaty thump or perfect crack. Every exhale was an exclamation, every inhale a hiss. 

The board glanced off the side of Hannibal’s ass, hit the edge of the table, and cracked. Will dropped it, swearing, at the shock up his arm. Hannibal started to back away--whether to pick up the piece or check on Will, Will didn’t wait to find out. He stepped up behind Hannibal and pushed him forward with one hand on his back. 

Will dropped to his knees, taking Hannibal’s dark blue silk pajama bottoms with him. Hannibal’s skin is red and slightly swollen, some places already darkening with the promise of bruises. Will started at the thigh, kissing a hickey into the pale skin just below the swell of Hannibal’s cheek and traveling upwards, licking a line across sensitive skin. 

Hannibal moaned his response. Will repeated his action on the other side, forcing himself to go slow, to make this last. The contrast between the abandon of the spanking and the slow, trailing line of his tongue pressing into the dimple right above Hannibal’s ass was delicious, exquisite, a new kind of torture they both shared. 

Will’s hands gripped Hannibal’s thighs. He started from the bottom again, and halfway up his lick turned to a bite. Hannibal vocalised, twitching in surprise. 

Hannibal’s trembling faintly, knees flexing as he tried to keep himself at the best height. Will finally spread his cheeks. His tongue traced its way down, circling Hannibal’s hole, gentler on the more sensitive skin. His tongue pressed in, alternating between wide and flat and pointed. His familiarity with Hannibal’s preferences let him skip the guess work, the build up. They’d had it fast and slow and now they had it right, the way that long, experimental sessions together had shown them was best. 

“Touch yourself,” Will said. Will let one hand release Hannibal’s thigh and drift to his own hard cock. He stroked himself in time to his movements, rocking back and forth, and he could feel Hannibal’s desperate motion as they moved towards orgasm. 

Hannibal came first with a frantic cry, and Will turned, burying his teeth in the other’s abused cheek. The sharpness added to the orgasm, and Hannibal’s filthy trail of swear words in five languages added to Will’s, as he let himself stop thinking of what Hannibal wanted and focused on bringing himself off as quickly and powerfully as he could. 

Panting, Will let him go. He leaned back on his heels and as the pleasure receded he became aware for the first time of the little discomforts--the humming pain of his shoulder, the way his knees pressed into the tile floor. He came back to himself in little spurts of discomfort, and then he reached out and picked up the board. 

There was a long crack down it, and only the thinnest amount of resin holding it together. He could have snapped it totally in his hands. “Look what you did,” Will said, rising unsteadily. He was flushed and damp and a mess at not even eight o clock in the morning. “It’s broken now.” 

Hannibal turned and looked over his shoulder. However Will felt, Hannibal looked worse and better--self-satisfied in addition to exhausted and aching. “Oh no,” he said. “It’s a good thing we have another. For now.”

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't proof this, so terribly sorry.


End file.
